


And find a new day (make your way back home to me)

by sage (kiwi37)



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: AU, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Most of those characters are fairly brief appearances, Time-space shenanigans, i don't even know what kind of au to call this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwi37/pseuds/sage
Summary: Tim remembers a lot of things he never really wanted to know. It raises a few questions.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent
Comments: 16
Kudos: 143





	And find a new day (make your way back home to me)

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I woke up this morning and my heart said "soulmates!AU" but my brain said "Fuck DC, I'm hijacking their inevitable Rebirth reboot before they can get their grubby little paws on it!AU"
> 
> Which like, ngl, I've hardly read any post-reboot comics, so, um. This is maybe a little messy?? Enjoy lol

Tim sits at the top of a skyscraper. His feet dangle in the open air, hundreds of feet between him and the next flat surface, and he looks out over the Gotham skyline, taking in the weird, familiar mixture of gothic spires and modern concrete and glass. It always feels more peaceful up this high—he’s no daredevil, but Gotham can be suffocating, and he’d discovered shortly after Bruce had granted him his first grappling hook that the higher he got, the more space there was and the cleaner the air felt. Usually he’s happy down on the ground, doing the work he had begged for with people he loves, protecting his city from itself as best as he can, helping wherever he’s able.

Sometimes, though, things are bigger than Gotham, and he needs to get up this high, leave the crush of bodies and buildings behind and climb until he can breathe again. It’s been a strange couple of weeks—Bruce had encouraged him to take a few days off, collect himself, and now eyes him disapprovingly every time he follows Bruce and the others down into the cave and suits up anyway.

“You need to take time to process,” Bruce keeps insisting, and Tim figures he’s right, but what else is there to do but keep moving?

After all, Tim’s not the only one who’s been affected. The first wave had been mostly fine—they had all been in the cave, getting ready for patrol, when the memories had washed over them without warning. It was a strange experience, suddenly remembering a life you’ve never had, but it hadn’t been a major problem. There had been a particularly unfortunate costume, some faces he hadn’t recognized that made him curious, some villainous plans he didn’t remember thwarting. Only one thing was so strange that it really called for much reaction—he and Steph had both had to pause and look at each other, mirrored expressions of mild disgust on their faces.

“…Ew,” Steph had said after a beat, and Tim had nodded emphatically, and that had been the end of that. 

The second wave was… weirder, more of a curveball, but still easy enough to assimilate into his understanding of the world. The costume hadn’t been quite as bad, although he wasn’t sure how he felt about the wings. He’d been a little confused by the differences in his own personality, mildly ashamed that there was a world in which he behaved the way the memories indicated he had, but mostly set it aside as what it was—interdimensional space/time nonsense that he wasn’t really supposed to know about, anyway.

Damian’s reaction to that second wave had been bad, though. Tim can’t blame him, as he’s sure re-living, trying to comprehend a death he’s never actually experienced can’t be easy. Bruce’s reaction to finding out about the death of a version of _another_ one of his children in addition to Jason’s bitterly familiar fate is equally unhappy, and father and son had both frequently retreated into dark, locked rooms for several weeks, ignoring the food that Alfred left for them. Ever since then, Bruce has been having a sort of silent conniption, trying to track down who or what had caused the intrusive memories. Tim thinks it’s probably for the best, as the memories are only showing them things that none of them need to know, causing widespread pain, confusion, and embarrassment, but personally he had been able to largely shrug it off at the time.

The third wave, though, had hit late one afternoon while he was in the kitchen at the manor trying to decide what to have for breakfast. Dick had been munching away at his cereal and scrolling through his phone, Damian frowning aggressively at the toaster as he’d waited for his pop-tart. Tim had heard Dick’s spoon clatter against the side of his bowl as it slipped from his fingers, seen the blood drain suddenly from Damian’s face, and the next real thing Tim remembers is being on his knees, forehead pressed against the cool kitchen tiles as his body tried to decide if it should hyperventilate or vomit.

There’s been a lot more hugging than usual since then. At the time, Dick had held him on the kitchen floor for the better part of an hour while Tim had gasped and shuddered, tears slipping down his cheeks even though he hadn’t felt like he was crying. He had only been utterly numb, crushed by the impossible weight of grief and agony and fear, none of which were really his.

Their family hadn’t fared well in that existence—Tim remembers Dick’s body shaking as he’d tried to gather Tim’s head up off the floor, the way Damian had slid down the kitchen cabinets to sit heavily on the floor next to Tim’s prone body and curled up under the arm Dick offered him. Their newest Robin had closed one hand tightly around a fistful of Dick’s sweatshirt and pried Tim’s own hand open with the other, holding on with determination as Tim dug bloody crescent moons into his skin. Tim figures later, when he’s in his right mind again, that this had been Damian’s way of apologizing for what they had both remembered.

Dick must have heard Bruce looking for them, because Tim remembers him calling out hoarsely, and then Bruce had found the three of them collapsed on the floor like that and fallen to his knees beside them. Jason had stumbled wild-eyed into the kitchen to be caught in Bruce’s crushing hug, returned it just as fiercely, and a few minutes later the girls had come in all together—apparently they’d found each other first, Cass balled up in Babs’ lap with one arm around her neck, the other hand clasped tightly in Stephanie’s. It had taken a long time for the tears and the desperate apologies to peter out, and then Alfred had come into the kitchen and everyone had started bawling all over again. After a while Alfred had given up on being able to use the kitchen anytime soon and ordered them all Chinese takeout for dinner instead, letting them eat it with plastic forks on the kitchen floor, still tangled together in a scared, sad knot.

Tim remembers most of it in flashes; he’s sorry he missed it, that he hadn’t had enough presence of mind to tell Damian he was sorry, too, to thank Cass or hug Bruce back. The loss and pain of that life had overwhelmed him completely, totally unprepared for it and not sure how to cope. It’s not like his real life has been perfect, of course—his mom really is dead, and three years ago his dad had quietly accepted Tim’s request that Bruce be allowed to adopt him, which had hurt more than Tim would have thought it could. But in those memories, his life hadn’t just been difficult—it had been utterly decimated, taken apart one piece at a time with a cruelty and indifference that Tim doesn’t want to accept from any universe.

He must look as shell-shocked as he’s felt these last few weeks, because his family is still hugging him randomly, Cass’s strong, slender arms just this side of painfully tight around his waist or Jason’s thick bicep crushing his face mercilessly into Jason’s chest. When he’d shown up a little early at Titans Tower last weekend, Bart and Cassie had pulled him into a long, long group hug, Cassie’s cheek warm and damp against his hair as she murmured comfort and apologies, Bart’s ribs hitching so fast that Tim had worried he was going to pass out.

Now, as he sits looking out over his city, he notices a figure in the distance approaching fast. Conner is always easy to spot in Gotham, the bright primary colors of his costume standing out against the grey of the city even when he has the leather jacket on.

“Hey, Blackbird,” Conner says, and although it is actually Tim’s new codename, he somehow makes it a joke and an endearment all at once. Tim smiles a little as Conner comes closer, settling on the ledge beside Tim before hooking one arm around a knee and leaning back on the other hand.

They sit quietly like that for a while, Conner watching the sky and Tim kicking his legs a little, eyes focused somewhere that’s not quite his feet and not quite the ground below.

“You weren’t at the Tower last weekend,” Tim says eventually. He hears the breath Conner lets out, not exactly a sigh.

“There was a lot to think about.” Tim nods, acquiesces, because Conner is right, particularly the last wave. Tim is still trying to figure out exactly what had happened, unwinding the memories one layer at a time. It’s a slow process; it feels like that version of himself had lived a decade in just a few years, and Tim is starting to think maybe he doesn’t want to know all the particulars anyway. As far as he can tell, though, almost nothing is consistent across all four sets of memories he now has. The same people, maybe, but the relationships always different; there had even been one case where he’d ended up rejecting Bruce’s partnership, which has always seemed so fundamental. There’s just one thing that’s always, always stayed the same.

“What is it supposed to mean that every time, no matter how much everyone else hates me, you believe in me?” Tim laughs a little, leaning back to watch the clouds pass overhead.

“I was going to ask what it meant that every time, you came back to me. Even when you… when you died, you still came back.”

Conner hums a laugh, finally turns his head to look at Tim. “Y’know, considering all of the different ways we’ve apparently done this already, I’m thinking it means whatever we want it to mean. So.” He doesn’t have to ask the question.

Tim looks at him for a minute before holding out one gloved hand, uncertain. Conner glances down and smiles, but doesn’t move to take it. Instead, he looks Tim in the eye as much as he can when Tim is in costume and asks, “Could you take your mask off?”

Seeing the way Tim hesitates, Conner rolls his eyes and reaches out to ruffle Tim’s hair. “There’s nobody around, you nerd. We’re a hundred stories up, and I promise no one in any of these buildings has binoculars. X-ray vision.”

He has the nerve to _wink_ , and Tim sighs. Still, he undoes the lock on one of the pockets of his bandolier, pulling out a packet containing a cotton wipe soaked in rubbing alcohol and tearing it open to begin the tedious process of loosening the spirit gum that holds his mask in place. Conner watches patiently, smiling the whole time, and Tim tries not to look at him too often.

When he finally manages to peel the thing off, Conner grins at him and offers Tim his hand, mirroring Tim’s earlier gesture. “Okay,” he says, apparently satisfied now. Tim returns his smile wryly and reaches out, putting his hand in Conner’s, which is big and warm somehow, even through both of their costumes.

“So… what does this make us?” Tim asks after they just sit and stare at their entwined hands for a while, taking it in. Conner scoots closer as Tim speaks, so that they’re pressed together from wrist to shoulder.

“Shit, I dunno,” Conner says, looking out at the skyline. “Soulmates, maybe? That’s gotta be what that means, right? To keep coming back to each other the same way, over and over again, in so many lifetimes? What else do you call that?”

“Really, really good luck?” Tim offers, and chuckles at the skeptical look Conner shoots him. “I was thinking more about something I could tell my dad, though.”

“Oh, right.” His eyes meet Tim’s again and the look on his face makes Tim feel warm and giddy all over, the best thing he’s felt since the damn memories started, or possibly ever. “Boyfriends? Do you wanna be my boyfriend?”

He’s leaning awfully close, enough that Tim can feel the ghost of Conner’s breath fanning against his cheek, and Tim finds himself moving to meet him somewhere in the middle. The hand not still tangled up in Conner’s moves to cup Conner’s cheek, pulling him just a little closer. “That sounds nice,” he murmurs. It feels even nicer when Conner kisses him, warm and slow, and though he feels bad for all his other selves missing out, he’s sort of glad that this is all his.

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many headcanons I couldn't cram into this thing sigh, I designed new costumes and gave people new code names and everything!! I might try to figure out how to do more with this AU later, not sure... 
> 
> Also I know Blackbird is already a different lady in DC canon, but hey: fuck it. My canon now.
> 
> Also also I'm spending my comic book budget next month on figuring out who the heck Duke Thomas is bc he seems real cute and I feel bad for not knowing enough to include him in my family-ish fics


End file.
